


Champagne and Wine (The Reylo Triptych)

by rey_sith_stance



Series: The Reylo Triptych [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dominant Kylo Ren, Drunk Kylo Ren, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Levitation, Loss of Virginity, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Sex, Smut, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker - Freeform, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), That's Not How The Force Works, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), alcohol involved, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rey_sith_stance/pseuds/rey_sith_stance
Summary: “You were thinking of me.”  Kylo knows he’s tall--isn’t above using it as a weapon.  He takes those last steps leading with his shoulders, with the familiar liquid grace he’d use to terrify a foe.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: The Reylo Triptych [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691389
Comments: 21
Kudos: 154





	Champagne and Wine (The Reylo Triptych)

Champagne and Wine

The Reylo Triptych

When he comes back to his chambers (his gait weaving—the dark wine swirling in his body and his glass) she is there: poking through his things, the sundry artifacts he’s so naively left on the display unit. Nothing, he thinks, she’s been looking for or she’d have made off with it already like the scavenger she is, but she’s searching, fingers roving across the mask and the knife blade—fingering the wilted edge of an ancient scroll. Sith things. They should make her recoil. But she leans in, white gown plunging to reveal her back. Kylo stares, stunned by this unexpected offering, then confirms that yes: it’s really her. 

Rey.

 _Is she coming from a party too?_ His thoughts are slower, thickened by wine. The one evening he decides to indulge himself _would_ be the one in which she slips past his defenses. He hasn’t felt even a shimmer in the Force—but then, how can he tell? He’s _always_ feeling her. The strange bond between them has shown him her dreams, has even breathed, once or twice, the scents of places she inhabited. Jungle. Desert. The familiar oil-scent of the _Falcon_. He can never see her surroundings—only her. 

Wherever she is now she is also _here_. He’ll be as real to her as the objects beneath her hands. 

“See anything you like?” he asks. He hates the petulance in his voice--but delights in her sudden start. As she whirls, something glitters and falls from her hand and, instinctively, he reaches with the Force to catch it. It’s a wine flute, fizzing a pale liqueur, sparkling in the sterile light. The golden color matches the fear-gleam in her eye as she struggles to cover her flush of dismay.

As he rights the glass he senses her shock at his presence—and her touching disappointment over the wine. She’d been looking forward to drinking it. Now, like so much else, it’s ruined. By him.

Kylo still holds _his_ glass of wine. A brief gesture and Rey’s glass floats between them. Deliberately, he leaves it just out of her reach—though more from curiosity than cruelty. It’s the exact opposite of his dark Carellian vintage—no deep red poison but sweetness and light. With the Force inside him he can feel how she craves it--and his heart clenches in ridiculous sympathy. 

The two of them must be out of their minds. The whole galaxy on fire and they’re drinking on the job.

“That’s expensive wine,” he tells her mildly, allowing her glass to float within her reach. He waits for her to take the offering, but she backs away, mistrust breathing off her like perfume. Her gown plunges in front as well as behind, exposing a luminous “v” of flesh. Kylo finds himself gulping wine again in a futile attempt to douse his fires.

“What’s the occasion?” Rey asks, noticing his drink—staunchly refusing to pluck her own from the air. 

He smirks. “Celebrating my ascension.”

“To Supreme Leader."

He nods.

“Oh Ben…”

He raises a black gloved finger in warning. “Don’t,” he snaps. “You want a drink? _Drink_.” Before she can protest, he suits his own words and downs another huge, burning mouthful of wine. A reckless move—but he _feels_ reckless. If she wants to take him out, then let her try. He has his saber—she doesn’t—nowhere to hide it in that dress. She could use the Force on him—but she won’t. _Can’t_. He’s been inside her head, inside her dreams, down into the secret chambers of her heart. She won’t press her advantage on a drunken man. 

Still, she scrutinizes him for a moment—long enough make him doubt.

Finally, she plucks the glass from the air and, eyes defiant, takes a sip.

A second later her brow wrinkles, lashes fluttering as she staggers.

“It’s _strong_ ,” she says. “Oh gods, I wasn’t expecting….” 

She stops, remembering who she’s with. 

“Those fruity wines are the worst,” Kylo offers. Strange how normal this almost feels. “Why are _you_ drinking tonight?”

She sniffs. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

“I would.” He means the words sincerely—and not even for the intel she might provide. But just like that the atmosphere changes. Something settles on them like a gossamer cloak. She faces him. There is a heady pause in which he swears he can hear their hearts _beat_ together. 

Then she drains her glass and sets it decisively on the display unit.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

“Like what?” (As if he doesn’t know.)

“Like you’re hungry for…” She trails off.

“I am.”

“What?”

“Hungry.”

Desire clouds her eyes as he uncoils, moves towards her, close enough to breathe her in. The gown plunges. A pulse races beneath her dewy skin. She’s strong and supple. A warrior like him.

“Noo…” she says. The gown hisses as she retreats—and Kylo allows himself to gloat. There’s real fear in her, finally, but not of him. It’s herself she fears. The wine. The heat. The darkness of her own imagination which flickers, brushing against his own.

 _Tired_. He senses her thoughts now. _I’m so tired of fighting. How much longer_ can _I fight?_

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says. She’s backed against the wall but you’d never call her cornered. She watches his approach half hypnotized, half furious, the way she might watch a sashaying cobra.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers.

“No. You’re _drawn_ to me. Like I’m drawn to you. Your Light, my Darkness—we were meant to be together. You know the truth of it. Just like me.”

The little flinch she gives is all the opening he needs. There it is. The vulnerability. The fault-line, cracking. The way she looks at him, helpless and enrapt…he knows he’s looked at her that way. In smoldering throne rooms, on shattered battlefields—always trying to convince one another. They know what they are. That they belong together. Only the terms have ever been in question. 

“You were thinking of me.” Kylo knows he’s tall--isn’t above using it as a weapon. He takes those last steps leading with his shoulders, with the familiar liquid grace he’d use to terrify a foe. Rey retreats but there’s nowhere to go—just the cold wall, rounded as it curves back towards the display unit. The train of her gown whispers and his footsteps pad softly until he towers above her, breath shallow with want. His hands in their leather gloves slide to cup her face and it seems to take forever to bend and kiss her.

She stiffens. Slender fingers encircle his wrists—undecided on whether to fight or surrender. He pushes against her, trapping her with his body, and parts her lips to his, sweeping—deep and sweet—with his tongue. Though he’s dreamed of this moment a thousand times the reality is infinitely more intoxicating. The clean smell of her skin, the clinch of their bodies, the brief dart of her tongue as she begins to answer him—these things bring on a storm of desire so acute it is almost pain. 

He burrows into her, drinking her, tasting her, breathing in short, heated bursts between kisses. He only stops when the air runs out. Because he needs more. Needs everything. Intends to take it.

He strokes a black leather thumb across her lips, denting the corner of her mouth as she gasps. For a moment he wants to slip it inside her, feel her suck him through the leather—an invasion and a prologue. Just the thought of her on her knees to him makes him hard. But no. Not yet. Not this first, sweet time. He hisses through his teeth, weights himself forward, uses one leg to ease apart both of hers. She gives a little cry as she finds herself lifted, as her warm mound centers against his straining, powerful thigh. Even before he rucks her gown up (roughly: its silken barrier frustrating him no end) he can feel her heat melting through him as she clenches her thighs to keep her balance. 

“You were thinking of me and it brought you here,” he pants—hands already slipping under her clothes. She’s trying to fight him, grasping the front of his doublet, trying to get purchase on the floor with her toes, but the struggle only serves to increase the friction, rubbing her mound harder and faster against him. With her skirt thrust aside he can see she is naked—nothing under it, helpless to his touch. Her little shaven sex is sealed to him, sucking at his leather clad thigh like a mouth. 

He groans, nearly undone by the sight. He’s so hard already. He may not last. One more thing though: he eases his rocking just enough to reach up behind her and take down her hair.

It falls slowly: three twists loosening in fragrant coils that unwind and fan out across her throat. Kylo brushes it back, tenderly—he always wondered what she looked like—and buries his mouth against her warm flesh. She tastes so pure and good and right, her skin perfumed by some faint and flowery soap. He could drink her like wine. Devour her. Melt into her—though, somehow, he is shuddering.

“Disappear,” he whispers, to the angle of her jaw. “You can stop this. Stop me. Deny what you want…”

She makes an inarticulate sound of agony—a breathy sob, almost a word—but she stays. He takes this as permission to jerk her closer, one arm around her waist, the other finding the crease of her thigh. He manages to get the glove off this exploratory hand but he’s got no time for the one splayed to her back. He’s getting violent. Passion has always made him dangerous. His will to dominate and conquer is as sharp as hers to defend. Yet his naked fingers touch her sex gently enough, helped along by the seeping wetness of her arousal.

Rey gasps, holding her breath. A thread of worry sends a chill through the fire of their bond.

“Ben,” she whispers, one hand grabbing his wrist as she struggles.

“It’s Kylo.” He slips a finger inside her.

They shudder as one. She’s so wet, so swollen. Wanting him as much as he does her. Or maybe not. Maybe her gasping pleas are just pain. He’s holding her so tight. Can barely think. A few swirls of his finger in that creamy wetness and he withdraws, ripping at the front of his pants. A tug, just enough to slip them from his hips, a clumsy fumbling under the hanging hem of the doublet. Then his sex is so hot and thick in his hand and he’s spreading her, thrusting, and she’s so achingly tight.

It’s only as she cries out, arching against him—a movement as sudden as a blast—that he puts the clues she’s been sending together and realizes he’s just taken her virginity.

He stalls. The darkness in him is delighted. To hurt this girl—this woman—has been hardwired into his brain, so conditioned that all his fantasies are of her submission except those rare and secret few where he submits (joyfully) to her. This moment seems balanced between the two extremes—has he just conquered her, or is this a rout? The weakness that lurks always at the back of his mind fires protests and recriminations even as his pleasure swells. 

_Oh no_ , he thinks. He should have gone more slowly. Always too impatient. Always on fire. He could have made this so much better for her—something precious she wouldn’t have been able to forget. He could have used it to muddle her loyalties, exert a claim on her greater than any cause. He could have promised her things. Offered peace for surrender. Pleasure for pain. Release. Rapture. The Dark Side isn’t all torment. He didn’t know, until now, how much he wanted to prove that to her.

She gives a little cry, her head thrown back, then her legs clench tight and she rides him. Hard.

“Ben…” she says. “Ben, Ben…”

Her breathy whisper fires every nerve in his body. 

His mind whites out as she strokes against him, gripping him with her cunt and her strong, slender arms. His old name falls from her lips and shatters, piercing his ears with a silvery chill—and though he rejects it, rejects it utterly, he is not that boy and he never will be again—a part of him marvels at how she’s turned the tables, making the light into something forbidden and wild. She’s using him—viciously, wantonly—reaching selfishly for her own pleasure, and he can only struggle to keep up, to match her as she climbs his body and then lowers herself so scaldingly down.

“Touch me there.” Somehow she has his hand. The naked one. Is guiding it between her legs. She’s incomprehensibly wet to the touch but he finds the place she wants and presses with his thumb. Her back slams hard against the wall, the motion arching her, bringing her breast level with his mouth. He traces a soft areole with his tongue as he thumbs her clit, fucks her, crying her name.

The whole time she is gasping for Ben, Ben, Ben. Thinking of someone who doesn’t exist. 

The whole time he drives back at her, trying to take, but he’s the one being taken, the one being had. Her hips and her sweet little cunt are traps. Her mouth, when he can claim it, is numbing: drugged wine.

“Ben,” she says. “Ben…!”

And she knows how he wants her. Knows he’d burn whole systems if she’ll say his true name.

She’s winning. _How_ is she winning? he wonders. 

Why does _losing_ feel so impossibly good?

At some point he can’t tell where he is anymore. One of them—or both of them—are using the Force. Are their feet even touching the ground, now? There’s no weight. No impact when she slams against him. There are only their bodies, fluid and striving. Only the pleasure, making him groan. Even their lovemaking is war, he thinks. Even their debased fucking is sacred. Her long hair dusts the backs of his hands. He grips her, his fingers sunk in her soft flesh. Her spine is arched so he can’t see her face—but this is her. This is all of her. All of him. 

One.

 _I love you_ , he thinks. _I’ll kill you. I love you…_

Then he can’t think. Only spend himself, wave after wave.

Rey takes longer. Deliberately. Little spasms run through her she floats with him to the floor. It’s cold, the floor, so he keeps himself beneath her, holds her hips as the shocks and aftershocks run their course. She runs a hand down her throat as she comes, the other braced against him, near the place where they’re joined. There’s a moment when he feels the Force gathering in her and realizes that, with her power, she could make him do whatever she wants. Just now though she is golden and melting atop him. She’s the warm champagne flattening in its glass. There’s a sheen on her cheek that isn’t quite sweat and her chest hitches: pleasure. Maybe tears.

 _She gave it to me_ , he thinks, confused. _I’m her first. She gave it to me. And she’s still here._

That’s what’s next, he understands, dismally. She’ll fade now. Ashamed, maybe. Regretting it all.

But she doesn’t. Only settles against him, at last, her warm, tangled head tucked under his chin. Her fingers find his jaw and stroke tenderly—and hesitantly as if afraid he’s the one who’ll go away.

_I’m not though. Whatever you do to me. Never. Never going anywhere._

He’s holding his breath. Waiting for the fade out.

Instead he gets her warm, rich laugh.

“Ben?” she says.

“Mmph?”

“If you aren’t going to kill me, do you think we could have another drink?”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fic of any kind. Ever. Be gentle.


End file.
